


the bridge to nowhere

by evanescent



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Reboot, bruce and jason hurt each other even when they don't actually mean to, damian should both regret and rejoice he wasn't awake for this one, i just drag all ugly hurtful things for you to see and deal with the aftermath, in which one i neither fix nor ignore canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescent/pseuds/evanescent
Summary: He’s moving to the shoulder when he senses they’re not alone anymore.Jason looks up to find Batman at the opening of the alley and has to stop himself from automatically reaching for his gun. The man’s stance isn’t fighting or hostile per se, but there’s certain intensity and rigidness in it that puts Jason on edge.Belatedly, he realizes that Red Hood and a hurt Robin isn’t a novelty. (Then again, Batman never bothered to show up and deal with the fallout.)...Jason and Bruce take care of an injured Damian. It forces Jason to reflect on some... unpleasant things.





	the bridge to nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> prodigal batman author returns with a piece that's been sitting on their drive, almost finished, for a few months, but only today reached Peak Painful
> 
> warnings for language, mentions of injuries and violence, past character death, grief, lack of healthy coping mechanisms and reflecting on a lot of Questionable comic writing
> 
> i also advise on reading ending notes, either now or afterwards, as i have some stuff to say about this fic

The only reason Jason finds him is because he trips over something.

He’s chasing a member of a group that created a new drug circulating on the streets of Gotham — so far, “Epiphany” has caused nine confirmed deaths from overdose, five of them kids and teenagers. Jason has been looking into this case for over a week now, but just tonight he finally managed to get hold of someone who is a part of this ugly business — or rather, he’d have, if the guy didn’t bolt just as he had spotted him. And he’s _fast_ , Jason has to give him that, so as he brings his gun up, he decides it’s about time to put a forceful stop to the man’s escape.

And that’s when he stumbles and falls flat on the ground, helmet clanking against the chipped surface of the pavement, gun falling out of his hand. It’s all embarrassing, really; he hopes no one saw that.

He wastes no time picking himself up, but as he glances mid-crouch to see what exactly he’s tripped over, it’s the first thing that makes him pause. It’s a toy car, a fire truck. Jason wonders what it’s doing laying abandoned on an empty sidewalk in Bowlery; kids here usually take better care of the few precious belongings they have.

Several feet from it, he notices a dark puddle, a trail dragging behind a corner of the building and into an alley. The blood is fresh and whoever it belongs to must have lost close to a liter. Jason casts a half-hearted, irritated look in the direction where his drug cooker sprinted, picks up his gun and follows the trail.

In the dimly lit alley, he finds more blood and a motionless Robin.

Jason vividly wishes he didn’t get involved in the first place, but what is done is done, so he may as well check on the brat.

Kneeling down, Jason moves to asses Damian’s state, but before he can do anything, a hand shoots up to grip his wrist. The hold is limp.

“Get lost… Hood…” Robin pants, head slightly tilted up to regard him.

“Seems to me like you’re bleeding out,” Jason states dryly, in case Damian wasn’t aware. “What are your injuries?”

Damian only sneers, or so Jason thinks that’s what the noise is supposed to be. “Nevermind… what about...” his grip on Jason’s wrist tightens for a few seconds, urgent, as if to get his attention, but then the fingers loosen and his hand falls back uselessly.

“Shit, kid,” Jason mutters, going to pry off the domino on Damian’s face. The boy tries to recoil, but Jason doesn’t have time for this. “Don’t go losing consciousness now.” Even through the gloves, he can tell Damian’s skin is clammy. He moves his hand to the neck, to check the pulse, unsurprised to find it weak and too quick.

“Don’t…” Damian wheezes, drawing Jason’s attention back to his scrunched up face. “Don’t touch me…” Jason sees a flash of something in the boy’s green eyes before they close and he falls unconscious.

Jason sighs. “Darn it, brat.”

That’s bad, but at the other hand, without Damian anxiously fumbling around, he can finally check him for injuries. He quickly locates the gunshot wounds, one in Damian’s right shoulder, the other just shy of his left knee.

He doesn’t see other injuries requiring immediate attention, so he starts with the leg, cutting off the material of the uniform and making makeshift tourniquet to stop the blood loss. It won’t hold for long, but it’s better than nothing.

He’s moving to the shoulder when he senses they’re not alone anymore.

Jason looks up to find Batman at the opening of the alley and has to stop himself from automatically reaching for his gun. The man’s stance isn’t fighting or hostile per se, but there’s certain intensity and rigidness in it that puts Jason on edge.

Belatedly, he realizes that Red Hood and a hurt Robin isn’t a novelty. (Then again, Batman never bothered to show up and deal with the fallout.)

The moment passes and when Batman moves, it’s quick and with purpose, although Jason notices stiffness in his movements, and he seems to be limping just slightly.

“Status report,” Bruce says as he kneels on Damian’s other side, voice calm, assessing the situation.

“I don’t report to you,” Jason points out. Nevertheless, he lists off, “Two gunshot wounds. One went through under the knee, probably damaged tibial-fibular trunk. Other is in the shoulder, possible dislocation from the impact, no exit wound. Lost almost two units of blood, has been unconscious for six minutes. No head trauma, I think.”

Bruce is already working on securing Damian’s shoulder and just as he finishes, the Batmobile comes to a screeching halt in the alley; figures he remotely called the car to their location.

Jason notices, however, that Bruce is stalling, not rushing to get Damian inside.

“What? The brat doesn’t have all night, spit it out, old man,” Jason snaps.

He can see a minute twist to Bruce’s mouth and then he explains, “Alfred is out of town at the moment and no one else is at the Cave tonight. And I’m… not at my best performance,” he finishes. Jason narrows his eyes behind the helmet and the domino; so Bruce is also somehow injured. “I… could use assistance.”

It’s the closest Bruce will get to outright asking for help and he must be really in a pinch to ask Jason, out of all people. And Jason _could_ be an ass and tell him to fuck off because while he may occasionally work with the Bats if it’s going to benefit him, he actively goes out of his way to stay as far away from Bruce as possible.

And yet… Jason looks back at Damian, finally realizing what the boy’s reluctance to be helped meant, what flashed in his eyes just before he went under.

Fear.

He was afraid. Of Jason.

Jason hates it, kind of. And he hates that he apparently cares enough to hate it.

“Into the Batmobile, Batman,” he deadpans flatly, carefully hoisting up Damian into his arms. He notices Bruce’s shoulders drop slightly, as if in relief, but doesn’t comment on it.

…

It’s strange being in the Cave these days (nights), especially since this time is neither about injured slash almost dying Jason himself being dragged here against his will nor about one of those stupid “important meeting attendance mandatory” things he skips anyway.

Tonight it’s just Jason, Bruce and an unconscious, bleeding out Damian.

Not Jason’s ideal set of people and physical states, but he supposes it’s not a moment to complain as they move Damian to a table in medical bay. He doesn’t waste time as he takes off his helmet, domino, gloves and jacket, moves to wash and sanitize his hands. As he does so, Bruce stands there for a moment, looking at Damian’s slumped form, and he’d be perfectly still if it wasn’t for the barely visible trembling of his shoulders.

Jason announces loudly, “I’m going to take care of his shoulder, you take the leg.” That makes Bruce twitch and glance over his shoulder. Jason raises an eyebrow, impatient. “Can you do that?” he asks; truth be told, he doesn’t know what kind of injury Bruce himself is harboring and as long as the man can do his share, he doesn’t really care.

“Yes,” Bruce breathes out and finally follows Jason, removing parts of his suit as well.

As Jason prepares equipment and tools, he can’t quite drown out a bittersweet, nostalgic feeling — even after all those years, he still remembers where everything is kept. Not that much changed down here; Alfred is the one responsible for keeping things in order, and the man likes his routines.

No, Jason thinks as he starts clearing the wound in Damian’s shoulder, the most glaring difference _down here_ and _up there_ , is how crowded it had gotten over the years. The years he wasn’t here, the years he _chose not to_ be here.

Yet, working with Bruce on Damian’s injuries isn’t as insufferable as he imagined it would be, probably because they are both focused on the task, not talking save for some grunts and occasional request to pass something. Jason eventually extracts the bullet from Damian’s shoulder, glad to find it neither fell apart nor hit a bone. 

“Say, when you showed up in the alley,” Jason starts almost conversationally as he examines the bullet from up close, “for a moment you thought _I_ was the one who did him in like this.”

Bruce knows better than to deny. He just says, “It wouldn’t have been the first time you hurt one of your brothers.”

He doesn’t sound hateful or even reproachful, he just states a fact, yet Jason almost flinches. It’s not because of the “brothers” sentiment; he went against Dick a number of times since coming back and didn’t really feel guilty about it — Jason realizes Dick can take whatever he dishes out, and he still resents him a little for that. Hell, even that time with Tim at the Titans Tower; sure, he did beat the shit out of him, but it was different. Different than what happened after he donned Batman outfit.

Jason doesn’t hurt kids. And yet, as his eyes skim over Damian’s frame, his torso littered with far too many scars for a boy his age, he finds the ugly, large mark on his chest, one of Jason’s own doing.

Back then, he hurt Damian, and Tim. Attacked Selina, for no sensible reason. He killed people, and while, contrary to what others think of him, he isn’t trigger-happy, he did kill and get killed a lot of people. Bad people, sure, but low-rate thugs and enfoncers as well; some bystanders got caught up in that chaos, too. After the dust settled and his head cleared, Jason researched the damage the city took in that short tenure before one Batman and the other. Putting it simply, it wasn’t pretty.

At last, he drops the bullet into a metallic bowl; it echoes in the empty Cave. “Well, this is 9mm. Not my kind of caliber.” He pats his empty holster for emphasis.

Bruce gives a short, stiff nod from the other side of the table. “And this one was a rifle shot.”

It figures, that Bruce knew that he wasn’t the one who wounded Damian, because otherwise Jason sure as hell wouldn’t be helping the man stitch the kid up — in truth, it’s probably another testament to Bruce’s poor parenting that he’s letting Jason anywhere near his son _at all_. Still, his resentment eases somewhat and he picks up the surgical thread and needle to get started on stitches.

Jason isn’t sure if it’s a sign of trust, what’s happening right now, and he doesn’t think he wants it to be that. It’s been months since he came back to Gotham after a long absence and an even longer radio silence, extending a reluctant but reasonable olive branch to Oracle first. It was _almost_ easy — he stopped going after them only to get back at them or hurt them, and in rare instances, emergencies such as a massive Arkham breakout, he’s willing to lend them a hand and help out. In turn, they mostly leave him alone, rarely crossing into the shadier, poorer parts of Gotham where Red Hood resides anyway.

No, more than about trust, Jason thinks, it’s about choices. Circumstances forced Bruce to ask for help. Jason chose to agree. He may choose to walk out at any given moment, attack Bruce or just do his part and leave.

Choices, he thinks. But he doesn’t mean power, not exactly.

In flashes, he recalls —

Willis getting out of prison again and coming over only to pawn their stuff, and to argue with Catherine or raise a hand on her. His mother, laying on the kitchen floor, pills and needles scattered around her. The crowbar coming down, again and again, the bomb, the locked door. Coming back despite not even being asked if he _wanted to_. Talia whisking him off to the League of Assassins, throwing him in the Pit.

It all came down to one thing Jason was so often deprived of, and strived to have now, at all times.

Control.

Over the situation. Over himself.

He thought he had it for a while, after coming back, and maybe he did, or maybe it was just an elaborate illusion, supported first by Talia, later by the difference he seemed to be making out there with his methods.

Sure, he lost it from time to time, letting his emotions get better of him, ruin his meticulous plans, the green tilt of rage tainting his vision. Still, the goal was clear in Jason’s mind.

Then Bruce died — _that_ Bruce from the other Earth, who gave a _damn_ about his Jason, enough to kill his killer — and then _his_ Bruce died. Left a message that didn’t fix a fucking thing — in fact, only tore the gaping, raw wound deep inside of Jason even deeper.

It was like someone cut his strings, winded him up and set him out into the world. And so Jason did what they all claimed he was so good at.

He did damage. Some of it irreparable. Irreversible.

(Jason hated how much power Bruce as a person still had over him and his actions, even dead. Lost in time. Whatever.

A partner, a mentor, a father — all those things, Bruce had been to him, and then no more. Still, until that moment, Jason didn’t realize that he’d take the hurt, the betrayal, the bitter animosity between them, between Batman and Red Hood, over the hollow emptiness, the loss, the absence.

It was truly ironic that even when he hated the man, wanted him dead — Bruce was still the most important person in his life.)

That’s why, after some half-hearted attempts at riling up Dick and Damian while they served as a new Dynamic Duo, Jason chose to stay away from Gotham for a while. He scrutinized himself internally and didn’t particularly like some of the things he found.

Cutting down on killing wasn’t something he was doing for Bruce and the rest of his merry flock, to fit in with them again. No one asked, but Jason could admit he was doing it for himself. He didn’t trust his judgement completely anymore; there were some mistakes he couldn’t afford to make again if he was going to continue on this path.

“What were you doing in this part of Gotham, anyway?” he asks, to distract himself from this train of thought. He still doesn’t have the context for what went down.

Bruce grumbles. “Jim tipped us off that there was going to be a weapon delivery for Penguin’s men tonight. We didn’t have the exact location and other details, and only as we were dealing with Ivy’s latest work, Barbara managed to narrow it down for us. I sent Damian ahead, to scout the situation without engaging.” His mouth twists, a frown on his face as he looks down at his son. “He didn’t listen.”

“O-kay,” Jason drawls out, a little unconvinced. He wouldn’t put it past Damian, breaking orders and being so sure of his skill that he decided to act on his own, but charging in like that, in a way that got him shot twice? That sounded kind of unlikely. “What exactly happened, though? When I got there, the alley was deserted, no signs of the delivery or whatsoever. What did he relay to you?”

“The exchange was already wrapping up by the time he got there,” Bruce replies. “He was supposed to shadow the buyers, but then he just shut off his comms. They must have left before you found him.”

The alley, Jason thinks. Blood in the alley, Damian’s blood, that’s how his night took a turn for… whatever this was.

No, not exactly. Jason corrects himself — that toy fire truck he stumbled upon, laying on the sidewalk, started this for him. Why was it there? Was it somehow connected to this incident?

It wouldn’t leave his mind even as he finishes the stitches and steps away from the table, his neck aching. He tosses the gloves into the trash and goes to wash his hands, letting liquid soap foam around his palms.

“Maybe he had a reason for going in without you,” Jason wonders over the sound of the running water. “Some sudden, unexpected development. He had to act on the spot.”

He swears he can hear Bruce’s teeth grit. “He was angry with me even before we went out on patrol. He knew diving head-first was out of question, but he was determined to disobey me and did so anyway.”

For a split second, Jason feels strangely detached from the situation, from Bruce’s anger and worry, and Damian’s still, silent form. It passes quickly and then a wave of sickening familiarity washes over him.

 _What does it remind you of_ , he asks himself. 

Unprompted, he remembers all the offhand comments, remarks he has heard in passing between the Bats, even in the so-called “superhero community”. Very vividly, he recalls his first encounter with the new Batgirl, a few months ago, that started out with a vicious punch to his sternum and quickly turned into a rather embarrassing yet no less fierce tussle over the rooftops. He remembers Stephanie (he doesn’t think they will ever get along, unless they ally against a common enemy) shouting a lot of things at him, but what stood out the most was, _Do you know how it felt, having him compare me to you? It was like he was just waiting for me to fuck up, to get killed. And guess what, it worked!_

At some level, Jason knew, of course, that he’s become a warning to the other kids Bruce picked up after him, a cautionary tale. _You’re not ready to go out there until I say so. Listen to the orders. Don’t be reckless and brash_. Always with the same undertone, with glaringly obvious, usually unspoken, _You know where it got Jason_.

It was bitter knowledge, that this was all past Jason was to Bruce now, that even all the good he did as Robin would always be overshadowed by what happened at the finish line, by the affair with Gorozona, and by the Joker. But Jason could live with this — it stung, but he was used to them thinking the worst of him. He could even use it to work in his favor nowadays.

However, now, being presented, point-blank, with Bruce assuming that Damian went out of line for no reason other than pride or impatience, without even trying to do some detectiving first, feels like a slap in the face.

 _Did you do that with me, too?_ , he wants to ask, ice cold water running over his hands. _Have you never even bothered to try, to find out if there was more to that? All those times you went against the Joker and he never spilled a word about Sheila, did he? Well, why would he? It was your job to learn the truth. To believe in me, to think better of me._

And something in Jason _gives_.

He finally shuts off the water, lets his dripping hands fall to his sides. Still turned away from Bruce, he says, voice level, “You never asked, you know. Any of you.” _About how it was to crawl out of my own grave. About the time after that, but before the Pit. The Pit itself. The training_. It’s all true, but this time, he specifically means, “About what happened in the warehouse. In Ethiopia.”

He can hear Bruce inhale sharply and something metal, probably the surgical needle, clatters onto the table or the tray. Jason waits.

“I didn’t ask,” Bruce starts, sounding strained, “because I didn’t see use in have you recall that trauma…” Jason snorts because _when that ever stopped Batman?_ , “...while I know what happened.”

At that, Jason finally turns around, a twisted, bitter smile on his face. “No, Bruce, you _think_ you know what happened. But you only know the outcome. The result.” _I read my autopsy report_ , Jason doesn’t say. “So actually, you know _jack shit_.”

Bruce isn’t looking at him, still standing by the table, Damian’s brown skin in contrast with his own, pale, almost greyish at the moment. His hands, still in the bloodied gloves, are gripping onto the edge of the table so tightly Jason can count the knuckles under the plastic fabric. When he finally makes himself look at Jason, he just utters five words.

“I ask now. Tell me.”

Jason inhales and exhales slowly, squares his shoulders. He wants to start off vicious, vindictive, throw a metaphorical first punch, dictate the flow of this confrontation. But his voice is quiet, shaking just a little as he says, “I really was going to wait for you, Bruce. It was tearing me apart, but I _would have waited_.

“But then… I saw Sheila step out of the warehouse and I knew I had to do something. I tried to reach out to her, but she wasn’t taking me seriously. To her, I was just a kid.” Breathe in, breathe out. “So I told her I was Robin. I followed her inside because she claimed she had something to show me, that the warehouse was already empty. Well, she lied.” He chuckles, without a trace of humour. Something foul and sour bubbles in his throat as he remembers her dispassionate voice saying, _Sorry about that, kid. It looks like you’ve chosen the wrong person to trust, this time_. “The Joker had something on her, she was involved in an embezzlement of the funds, I don’t know the details. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” He never bothered to do a throughout check on her, after coming back. The less he thought about her, the better. “What matters is that she chose to sell me out because she decided that would benefit her more. In the end, it didn’t.

“You know what was the worst, though? Her cigarette. As he kept hitting and hitting me, she just stood there, to the side, looking away as she smoked.” That, more than anything else, was the reason he now couldn’t even stand the smell of cigarettes, not to mention, smoking them. But that, Bruce didn’t need to know. 

His eyes dart back to Bruce when he hears a movement; the man takes one shaky step in his direction, then another. His expression is pinched. “Jason, I —” he starts and Jason suddenly can’t do this, can’t take the apology or the pity.

“ _And then_ ,” he cuts off because he’s _not_ done, “you buried me _next to her_. Oh, I know about that. Before you moved my body to the grave I actually dug my way out of.” His hands are shaking. “And you did this knowing that I’d have wanted —” This, somehow, is harder to speak about than his death. It doesn’t make sense. Still, he forces himself to get the words out, “You got a headstone for my mom. For Catherine. You made sure she had a plot. And you didn’t let me _rest there_.”

Bruce _must have_ understood at least that much, right? What it meant to Jason back then, to be able to give his mother a proper burial place that he could visit. Where, one day, he’d be laid to rest, too. 

He sees Bruce slump back against the table and the man raises a hand to his shadowed eyes. “You were _gone_ , and I couldn’t ask you,” he says and he sounds so _wrecked_ , so unsteady, that Jason takes an involuntarily step forward, arm outstretched as if to stabilize him, before he realizes what he’s doing and stops. He doesn’t think Bruce even noticed. “You were my _son_ , and you were _dead_ , and I felt like I didn’t — like I didn’t understand you at all when it mattered the most.” His hand falls away, leaving a smudge of Damian’s blood over his brow and temple. “What you needed when you were alive, what you’d have wanted after... I thought about burying you with your mother, or next to my parents.” Jason’s breath catches in his throat because that… he could have accepted that choice, too. “But I buried you along Sheila because she was the person you dropped everything to search for half across the globe.” Bruce drags his gaze to meet Jason’s, heavy and so, so haunted. “The person you tried to save over yourself, even at the very end.”

Jason recoils, as if Bruce’s words physically struck him. They might have as well had. Bruce sees it, his expression growing even more haggard. He opens his mouth again, but Jason shakes his head.

“Stop,” he says, voice trembling, even if his raised hand isn’t. “Just… _don’t_.”

Briefly, he wonders what else Sheila told him before she died from her injuries. Nothing that would have incriminated her, apparently. Maybe she regretted betraying Jason. Or maybe she just regretted trying to strike a deal with a madman.

It hurts to breathe. Jason doesn’t remember the last time the Cave felt this oppressive, threatening to close in on him despite its massive size. And it’s only him and his labored breathing, the one man he’s ever really thought of as a father, and a steady beeping of a heart rate monitor hooked up to the boy he hurt too much and knows too little to call a brother.

It’s enough to help Jason clear his head. Remind him why, exactly, he dragged those particular skeletons out of the closet in the first place.

“I own up the shit I did, Bruce. The good, the bad, the ugly. But _this_?” Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. “This wasn’t on me. And it wasn’t on you, not really. It was on the Joker. And her.” He swallows, tries to ignite the spark of righteous anger, anything to replace this coldness he feels inside. “And I’m sick of you all victim blaming because you _should know better_.” He hastily picks up his gear, glares in the direction of Bruce one last time. “So before you start thinking the worst of us and passing judgement as always, ask at least _one_ of your kids about the truth. Maybe you will get it.”

And maybe one day, Jason will want to hear Bruce’s side of the story, won’t feel like the distance between them keeps growing instead of shrinking.

But tonight is not that time.

**Author's Note:**

> while jason and bruce's talk about what actually happened in ethiopia is obviously an emotional pinnacle of this story and touches upon vicitim blaming i so vehemently hate, this fic is mostly meant to be an introspectional piece on jason's part. i hate battle for the cowl and mostly ignore its existence because it's bad writing.gif, but in here, i try to put it in context in regards to jason's mental state at the time (though, as always, explanation =/= excuse)  
> also ngl it peeves me how often fandom babies jason and disregards some of his actions. by no means i say he is always a reliable narrator, even in this fic, but he'd _hate_ people trying to take his agency away - and like he tells bruce, he owns up what he does, because it's better than admiting that sometimes he isn't in control
> 
> anyways, i'm open to discussions. if i made you cry or you want to fight me, by all means tell me so :3c


End file.
